


The Lost Boys

by SebaDA



Series: One Generation Passeth Away and Another Cometh [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Parenting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, M/M, Physical Abuse, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SebaDA/pseuds/SebaDA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion piece to "You are all a Lost Generation" and takes place about two years afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is very heavy angst so be warned. 
> 
> I'm posting this fic in two different chapters because it has taken me longer to write this than I intended and I want to get a majority of it posted before working on the ending. 
> 
> This has been a difficult piece to write. So I'm a bundle of nerves and I hope you all like it.

     Blood and booze, a piercing metallic scent assaulted his nose when he paced through the motel door.

     It immediately set all of his nerves alight and he hovered on the crest of rising trepidation. A bottle of half-consumed whiskey was cast carelessly near the foot of the bed and the remaining amber liquid inside rocked back and forth in tiny undulations. But, still, Sam didn’t tumble into a complete panic until this pitiful groan was emitted from the bathroom. His ribs had been bruised, an ugly conglomeration of varicolored flesh, after hunting a werewolf with Dean a few days ago; but disregarding Dean’s instructions to avoid any strenuous movement, he sprinted into the bathroom.

     He found a nightmare in the bathtub, a lurid horror that locked his legs in immobile, petrified consternation.

     The sterile white of the floor tiles held vast pools of blood—so richly burgundy it appeared almost black. And in the center of it all, Dean lie in the tub with horizontal cuts littering his wrists and a gun gripped loosely in trembling hands.

     Blood loss leeched all of the color from Dean’s face, his spattering of freckles more pronounced than ever, and his eyes swam in dim confusion.

     Sam felt a blind, expansive horror consuming all his reason, knowledge, and logic.

            “Dean, baby, what’s wrong?” He couldn’t focus on the gun that his brother still clasp in his hands—he needed to know what put it there—nor could his thoughts linger on the dully-iron metal smell permeating his brain. Not if he had any chance of absconding this situation with his brother breathing.

     Dean blinked up at him sluggishly before dipping his head in shame, but with staunch resistance  he stubbornly avoided the question.

            “Didn’t mean for you to see this Sammy,” and God his voice echoed hoarsely as if he had been screaming, yelling, begging for hours and even from this distance Sam could smell the whiskey on his breath.

            “Who did you want to find you then, huh,” Sam snapped back, his whole being stretched taunt as a bow string, “some girl coming in here to clean. You want the front desk to tell me my brother, that you….. the one person I love more than anything….. was dead.”

     His voice broke on the lost word. If Sam had been any younger tears would be coating his face in a salty sheen, because he hadn’t yet been able to capture that neutral, stoic stare Dean could slap on right on cue. But right now, he sensed his facial muscles relaxing with the undue shock of stumbling into Dean’s suicide attempt.

            “I,” Dean cleared his throat which jarred his entire body and a newly-born trail of blood began cascading down his forearm to seep onto his jeans.

            “You know, slashing your wrists and swallowing a bullet is a bit over the top,” Sam had no idea how to coax someone off of a suicidal ledge  but this ill-timed humor flooded over him and hysteria made it impossible to prevent it from slipping through his lips.

     Dean responded quietly, “I, uh, I started with the knife but then I remembered how much you liked it. I wanted to leave it for you. I cleaned it up, put it in your bag.” Sam might have snorted  if he had any functional control over his robotic body.

     Typical, so damningly typical of Dean to have such an abundance of thoughtfulness for him and still not comprehend that Sam wouldn’t trade a million fucking hunting knives for his brother.

            “Dean, look at me, can I come near you?” he probed and for a millisecond Dean appeared to be forming a protest, then he shrugged helplessly, his bare shoulders shuddering with heavy tremors.

     Sam stole forward,  placing his feet one after the other with a cautious, studied precision; kneeling beside the bathtub, a coolness pressed against his shirtfront while he reached for Dean’s left hand.

            “Don’t, you’ll get all bloody,” Dean cautioned attempting to extract his hand out of reach but Sam beseeched Dean silently, conveying mentally that he didn’t care, nothing like that mattered. Closeness with his brother was all he needed right now; Sam wanted to burrow down and live in Dean’s soul, melding together until they became a singular, inextricable mass.

     Dean acquiesced rather easily and Sam gripped Dean’s hand between two of his own while brushing his thumb over the prominent vein and the scraped knuckles. He drew Dean’s hand up to his face, tracing his own jawline before pressing his cheek into Dean’s palm heedless of the excess blood streaking his hands and face.

     Something to the effect of _Why, Dean_ was supposed to surface but his voice wavered so much so that that particular sentiment was rendered inarticulate.

     Nonetheless, Dean began explaining, as well as he could, words offered as a placation, “It’s, you’ll be okay, ya know. Better if I’m not here. You’re smart, you can take care of yourself, you’ll be okay,” when Sa’s eyebrows slammed together, Dean added with a low fervor, “it’s not good when I’m around you. I don’t protect you like I should, I keep failing over and over. You keep getting hurt and it’s my fault. And,” wincing, Dean closes his eyes, shuttering against Sam’s searching gaze, “I’m worried I’m becoming like _him_. I drink too much and I look at you and my stomach _aches_ with how much I want you. And you’re just a kind, my little brother. I’m a filthy, fucking pervert. And, Sam, I just can’t anymore. I can’t be,”

     Just like that Dean’s eyes rolled back until nothing but the whites of his eyes showed. Sam’s lungs felt like they were being compressed by an industrial grade vice and his breaths came shorter and shorter.

     There wasn’t much chance that Sam would be able to lever Dean out of the tub, so he did his best to clean everything up as he dialed 911 and waited before the emergency vehicles arrived.

     Horizontal cuts, rather than vertical slices down along the vein, they were the only flimsy barrier safeguarding Dean from slipping rapidly to his death. Sam couldn’t keep those gaping, bubbling slashes from his mind. Indubitably, the  Winchester family had compelled, pushed and shoved, Dean to this point.

     This guilt—vile and oppressive—clung to Sam demanding to be acknowledged because if he had been more brotherly then maybe he could have prevented this.

     Dean would go to his grave, by his own hand and prematurely, to protect his family. He’s the absolute quintessence of a guardian. The Winchester’s very own guardian angel wrapped in beautiful freckled skin but whose wings drooped in the dirt, drawn down by shame and a sense of failure.

     A natural born protector, hunter, Sam’s Hercules; and Sam had robbed him of his very will to live.

     For two years, he grappled at any chance to tease Dean: he would come out of the bathroom with the thin towel slung low on his bony hips just to catch Dean glancing interested at him then guiltily away;  or sneak into Dean’s bed under the pretense of a nightmare just to roam his hands sleepily all over the solid planes of Dean’s chest and back; or any number of overtly sexual remarks that he spotted while winking like some suggestive co-conspirator.

     By the time, the sirens devastated the unnatural silence of the room, Sam worked himself into a mental vortex as he pressed towels to stop some of Dean’s bleeding. Before he could pull himself out of his stupor, the emergency lights cast their artificial hue onto the walls and medical personnel were banging on the door.

 

     Sam rode next to Dean in the ambulance, not bothering to stay in tune with the various medics chirping or barking in his ears. His brother never crawled his way to a murky consciousness which frightened Sam out of his wits.

     He also had to spend an innumerable length of hellish time in the waiting room after they shooed him out of the ICU while they  patched up Dean’s wrists and administered an IV solution to replenish his body of the blood and vitamins he lost.

     It broke Winchester protocol to resort to a hospital visit when Sam could have probably bandaged Dean up satisfactorily but it didn’t matter because Sam was scared.

     He needed doctors, nurses, and hospital staff to assure him that Dean would be fine and that they had cases like this pretty often. They wouldn’t let him into the room just yet so he utilized the time to call Bobby, and the man’s gruff soothed him more than he thought possible and Bobby even lured a strained, little laugh out of him by the end of the conversation. But Bobby prompted sharply before he hung up, “whatcha your daddy say when you told him what happened?”

     “Didn’t say anything because I haven’t told him. I don’t see what good it would do?” Then he tacked on as harsh as he dared, “I’m not planning on telling him either.”

            “It’s his son,” Bobby replied testily.

     Sam snorted, “then he should act like a damn father. Bringing him here, Bobby, would only make Dean worse and Dean is my priority. I don’t want John anywhere near this hospital or even in the same vicinity as my brother.” Hanging up the phone, Sam felt a leaden stone slosh around in his empty stomach as a sense of foreboding thrust a new heap of anxiety upon him.

     A kindly faced nurse finally admitted him into the private room where they had placed Dean. Sam felt bile rise at the back of his throat as he took in the ghostly figure of his brother lying wax-like with the sheets tucked to his chin and straps holding his wrists secure.

     Despite being raised in a hunter’s lifestyle and coming to terms with the mire of the supernatural, the concept of death still seemed foreign and elusive to Sam.

     Yet, in this moment, death wasn’t just an alien presence but a reality clawing towards his brother. The grief of the day finally caught up with him and took its tax on his body and soul. He crawled into the hospital bed with Dean, managing to straddle his brother’s waist without settling his entire weight down, with an endless litany of _Dean, please pull through for me, just need you not to leave me, can’t live without you, can’t breathe or think or eat without you. Need you, love you, love you so much_ on his lips. Desperate prayers and pleas curling around Dean.

     It took almost a solid fourteen hours of sleep and a constant IV line before Dean’s biological systems came back online. There wasn’t much of a chance for Sam to get any sleep in so he was studying Dean’s face, from the plastic chair he relocated to after his breakdown, when the gauzy lashes fluttered rapidly and Dean stumbled into wakefulness.

            “Sa’, what’s going on, Sammy,” he managed to mumble out and Sam jumped in.

            “You hurt yourself, De. Had to take you to the hospital. But the doctor said you should be fine after you get some more rest and recuperate.”

     He couldn’t miss the naked terror that bloomed across Dean’s face at the mention of a hospital, John’s lessons firmly engrained in the very basic parts of his mind. “Hospital visits are only supposed to be for emergencies,” he protested.

            “Dean, trying to kill yourself is an emergency. We can slip out of here once you feel a little better. Trust me.”

     Dean hummed out a slight agreeing noise and Sam’s heart once again suffered at the awareness that he could have so easily been two minutes too late.

            “I’m gonna take better care of you Dean, I swear,” which Dean would might have railed against in different circumstances but he wisely decided to let the comment stand as it was. Still, whether Dean came to terms with that statement immediately or not, Sam made an ironclad resolution within himself that he would look after his brother no matter the cost. There was simply no way that he could live without him so Sam would ensure that he would never have to.

            “Dean,” he prompted and when he had his brother’s singular attention he said, “I won’t ever fully understand what made you decide to end your life instead of working out your problems with me but I need you to promise me something.” To which Dean nodded and Sam continued, “promise you’ll never leave me again. Never ever, ever again.”

            “I promise, Sam,” and when Sam starts shaking in his seat, Dean motions him over as best as he can, “Come’re baby.”

     Sam climbs back into the hospital and settles against the gentle warmth of his brother’s body. As he rests against Dean, he speaks softly, “you’re not our father. You won’t ever be him. And I trust you. I trust you with my life and I need you Dean. Need you so much.”

     Sam promptly breaks into tears, pressing his messy, wet face into Dean’s neck.

            “Not gonna leave you, Sammy. ‘m sorry, sorry for scaring you. S’not gonna happen again, sorry damn sorry, sweetheart.”  Dean had worked his hands out of the restraining bands and he pulled at Sam until he perched securely on his lap.

            “I’m gonna take care of you, my little baby Sammy, promise. I promise I’m not going anywhere.” Dean assured as he tipped Sam’s head up to place a tiny kiss on the corner of his mouth.

    

     Sam true to word sneaks them both out of the hospital, though he conscience twanged guiltily. They stayed in the same motel because Dean insisted that it was a decent deal as the rooms weren’t expensive and decently clean. So they just changed rooms and Sam lingered round Dean’s bedside, an omnipresent shadow afraid to let Dean out of his sights.

     Stealthily, Sam researched into the nature of suicide and the likelihood that Dean would relapse. He read that a person who made an attempt on their life could potentially be in danger for at least a year after the incident.

     His brother was second nature to him and he knew that once Dean put the whole incident behind him, he was unlikely to ever mention or unearth it again. Nevertheless, Sam examined Dean from the corner of his eye whenever he could get away with it to be absolutely certain Dean wasn’t still harboring a residual death wish.

 

* * *

 

     So inevitably, it was during this recovery period, that their father decided then to drive into town.

     John rolled into the parking lot in his roaring truck, and Dean recognized the engine lying inside on the motel bed. He immediately clicked the TV off and threw panicky eyes at Sam, “Did you call him?” with a tight shake of his head, Sam felt his forehead furrowing in anger and his hands clenching in tight fists.

            “No, I called Bobby while you were in the hospital, but Bobby wasn’t supposed to say anything,” Sam paced in the middle of the room before rounding on Dean, “will you do something for me?”

     Dean rose his eyebrows, but didn’t make any definite commitments.

            “Just stay in here okay, let me handle it. I’ll talk to him first.” Sam didn’t wait to hear Dean’s answer before striding out the door at the sound of John’s engine shutting off.

     Their father hadn’t changed in the last few years; as he stepped out of his truck and spied Sam waiting on the curb, he didn’t raise his hand in greeting but his movements were steady so he wasn’t drunk. Yet, the skin around his eyes were drawn tight and Sam could recognize the underlying aggression lurking, poised and seeking an available outlet.

            “Sam,” John acknowledged with a slight nod in his direction, “Where’s Dean?”

            “He’s in the room sleeping,” Sam explained while asserting himself between his father and the door, then after a beat, “Why are you here?” he questions more forcefully than is safe. He knows his attitude riles John up, but he can barely reign it in when faced with the man.

     John takes a second before answering, “Bobby called and said I needed to check up on you boys. Wouldn’t say what was going on, but that it was pretty serious. Then I show up and you’re acting all shift-footed. So it’s not hard to guess somethings up. So where the hell is your brother?”

     Lying in their line of work is a vital skill, but Sam prides himself on being better than even most of the experienced hunters. Most people assumed he’s innocent and by the time the truth hits them in the face, their own ignorance has already bitten them in the ass.

     He lied boldly with his hazel eyes open and credible; he doesn’t even flinch when he says, “Like I told you, he’s laid up. We were hunting a werewolf and Dean got banged up pretty bad.”

     John was in his face before the sentence was even out of mouth all the way. His eyes shone with an unchecked proclivity to violence and bald malevolence.

            “Don’t lie to me, boy. I checked the hospital just before I got here and you know what they told me. Told me they did have two boys in there cause one of them, the oldest, had cut himself up real bad. Said they ran out though, so tell me Sammy, did Dean cut himself up?”

     Sam just shook his head, hoping Dean couldn’t hear the yelling through the paper-thin walls. John reached up and collected a decent handful of Sam’s hair in his fist. Pulling Sam even closer he snarled, “Don’t lie to me you little brat. You tell me where my son is this instance.”

     When Sam resolutely maintained his silence, prevailing over the whimpers that wanted to spill forth as he felt a portion of his hair try to pull free from the roots, John slammed him against the unforgiving concrete wall of the motel.

     His head thunked soundly against the wall and as spots gamboled across his vision, he wanted desperately to pass out. As John pulled him forward, intent on thrusting him against the wall once more, Sam could see Dean behind his father.

     Dean spoke up quietly but with a razor thin edge to his voice, “Stop. Stop touching him and walk into the room before someone calls the cops.”

     Sam immediately wormed himself away from John and went into the room first, settling into a defensive pose just inside the room as John and Dean followed,. But John didn't resume the fight once inside and like so many other incidents, it became another scene not discussed.

 

* * *

 

 

      It wasn’t in John’s nature to be idle for any long stretch of time as his bloodlust had him craving a hunt so Sam didn’t even get a week and a half of peace.

      If Dad wasn’t here Sam would have avoided the subject of hunting for at least a week more so that Dean had plenty of time to recuperate; and selfishly Sam didn’t have it in him to see his brother with a deadly instrument in his hand so soon. An anxiety ridden piece of Sam’s brain stressed that any minor perceived failure could set Dean off and maybe this time Sam wouldn’t be there, or wouldn’t be quick enough.

       And then he would be alone.

     But, John didn’t have the same reservations or concern. So after a week and a half of their dad breathing down their neck, Dean pulls Sam into the bathroom while John goes on a breakfast run.

     Dean settles back against the bathroom door before announcing, “Dead’s going to check out a case a couple of towns away,” which Sam figures, John would bail out the first chance he could, “and he wants me to go with him.”

            “Like hell you are,” the reply flew back easy as air because there was no way in hell they were going on a hunting trip together and not brining Sam.

     Dean snaps back, just as quickly though, “not your fucking decision Sam.”

            “What if he gets, Dean. What if he starts drinking and starts hitting you and doesn’t stop until he kills you. Or what if he gets so sloppy, he forgets you’re his kid and he feels you up. What then Dean? What if you decide you don’t want to live anymore with a fucked up Dad and a fucked up brother, and you swallow a few bullets, huh? What happens then? Gonna leave me with him,” and while Sam’s ranting, his body vibrates from all the excess energy and he’s so hyped up he could tear the walls down with his teeth.

     But, then Dean’s there because he is always just a hairbreadth from Sam and he wraps a comforting hand around the back of his neck. Sliding his hand into the downy fine hairs at the base of Sam’s neck, he draws his brother into his body.

     The hand strokes a light rhythm into his head as Dean pulls blunt nails lightly across his scalp. Dean is ginger with the lump that is still present on the back of Sam’s head and the entire, effect is so dizzily good that Sam’s skeleton could dance out of his skin in an acute ecstasy.   

     Sam murmurs into the cotton of Dean’s shirt, “Don’t go. Please don’t go.”

            “I’ll come back to you, I promise,” Dean replies instead and begins scratching a little more intently in Sam’s hair. Dean drops a hand down to the small of his back, as Sam feel himself arching his spine bowing up until his chest is pressed flushed against Dean’s and his ass sticks out at a deliciously tantalizing angle.

            “That’s it, baby,” Dean encourages lowly as he allows his hand to cup Sam’s ass and squeezes gently, “give your big brother a little goodbye present. Show me how much you’re gonna miss me.”


	2. Chapter 2

     Sam couldn’t bite back this choked little moan as Dean palmed him harder, and Sam discerned that Dean was using this to distract him but God did he want to give into the temptation.

     They shared sloppy, open-mouthed kisses that were slippery and tasted incredible. He could taste his brother in his mouth as Dean’s tongue tangled with his own. Dean panted softly in his mouth, and Sam took the moment to pull back.

            “When does Dad get back?” he pressed and Dean grinned back at him wolfishly.

            “Don’t worry Sammy, we got plenty of time. You gonna show me what that smart mouth can do?” and at any other time, Sam would have rolled his eyes at such a cheap line, but right now he felt himself harden so apparently his cock liked the line just fine.

            “Tilt your head back, baby brother,” and Sam wasn’t one to deny his brother. Tilting back, exposing his throat, Dean nuzzled his plump bottom lip against the flushed skin of his throat. He murmured lightly, “So pretty baby.” It wasn’t until he bit down that Sam made a tiny noise of protest, but Dean laved over the wound with his tongue until Sam settled down.

     Yet, as Dean’s hands began wandering and worrying at the waistband of his pants, he finally drew away and hopped onto the bath counter to give himself plenty of space. Dean followed him and bracketed his legs by placing his arms on the counter. “What, what’s wrong?”

            “Dean, I don’t …. I can’t do this. Not when, not after what you did because of me.” Sam could tell his words sobered Dean up, but his eyes were still wide and beguiled; the jewel-like green seemed swallowed up by his pupils.

            “Sam,” his words stuttered out unsure, but his hands slipped definitely onto Sam’s thighs, “I, what I did was wrong, I shouldn’t have done it. And it will _never_ be your fault. I love you, more than I should as your brother. But how I feel about you, it’s okay. It’s not wrong. Because you’re mine, even if I don’t deserve you.”

            And Sam could sense his own resistance dissipating, but he couldn’t just ease the sight of his brother in that bloody fucking bathtub out of his mind’s eye.

            “You’re sure? You’re just okay, with all of this.”

             “Of course, I’m sure. Sammy, I need you. I fought it until I made myself sick, and then I just tried to get rid of myself to spare you. But if you want this and I need this, then why the hell shouldn’t we?”

      Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders, “As long as you’re okay with this, then it’s good. We’re good.” Dean leans forward and presses a messy kiss on Sam’s waiting mouth. Dancing down off of the counter, Sam aligns his body with his brother and relishes every point where he can feel Dean’s body heat seeping through his clothes. Sam can also feel Dean’s erection pushing against his thigh.

     Sam works a hand between their bodies to rub at Dean’s cock through his jeans, and questions once more, “you’re completely sure?”. Dean just pouts out him and thrusts into his hand, “yes, bitch, now hurry up.” Still, he ducks down and plants another kiss on Sam’s lips, silently expressing the _I love you_.

      Sam manages to slide his hand into Dean’s pant and grip the hot flesh of his dick before they both hear the unmistakable roar of John pulling into the parking lot. Dean pounded the countertop, hissing _fucking really, now. He had to come back now._ “Come on kiddo, gotta leave the secret lair.” Sam dutifully followed Dean out of the bathroom, and feels the sanctuary of the enclosed environment slip away.  

     Over breakfast, John announced that Dean and he were going on a hunt and that no, Sam couldn’t come. Within thirty minutes, both men were packed and ready to go. Dean was barely able to get out a hasty, “We’re only 45 minutes away. Call me if you need me,” before John hustled him out. John only ordered to check all the protection wards and salt lines before he closed the door and disappeared with Dean. They were gone and Sam could only pray that his brother would really come back to him.

    It wasn’t until a little after midnight, eight full days later, that Sam heard from Dean again. The phone call didn’t wake him up because he couldn’t sleep as his stomach throbbed with anxiety. When his brother’s name flashed across the screen of his cell-phone, gratefulness consumed him.

     Normally, the call should have been Dean checking in, letting Sam know that he had taken out the vampire nest and that he hadn’t been hurt. But Sam immediately took in the hitched breathing and instantly there was no doubt that this was not going to be simple and clean.

            “You were right, Sam,” Dean admitted hoarsely, “we went to a bar and he had a few too many. You were right, god. I should have listened to you. Just, Sammy, can you drive up here? I just need to see you and I’ll be fine,” but his voice creaked as he impossibly beat back his emotions, trying to imprison himself within his own mind.

            “Dean, listen to me, I’m coming right now. I’ll be right there. Do you need to go to a hospital?” Sam was already picking the lock of some car in the parking lot as he spoke. Enough puzzled silence passed over the line that Sam bluntly asked, “Did he rape you? Are you torn or bleeding anywhere?”

            “No, not uh, I don’t think so.” Pressing for answers over the phone would prove to be futile so Sam concerned himself with getting to Dean as quickly as possible.

    He prolonged the conversation as he sped down the highway, moonlight barely illuminating the way and the mile markers rushing past in an obscure blur. Pretty soon Dean wasn’t even responding to Sam, except to plead that he was tired. Truth is, the crash of adrenaline from whatever did occur between John and Dean, should have made his brother exhausted. Nonetheless, Sam insisted on continuing his inane ramblings so long as he could hear the steady rhythm of Dean’s breathing.

     The car’s dashboard clock flashed 12:42 by the time Sam pulled up next to the Impala. As he stretched out of the car, he saw a figure through the tint of the car windows. Dean lay sprawled in the back seat of his baby and Sam shoved him over to make a seat for himself with Dean’s legs draped over him. Dean didn’t lift himself into a sitting position, or even glance in Sam’s direction, but he grabbed Sam’s wrist to place it on his stomach. Sam’s hand made a steady travel upwards before drifting back down as his brother measured and regulated his breathing.   He finally began answering the questions plaguing Sam; his words drifted towards Sam whose eyes had slipped closed as he couldn’t distinguish anything definite in the darkness anyway.    

    In the security of the Impala, their life could have been someone else’s life where Sam and Dean were just over-invested spectators. That maybe when the sun dawned over the horizon with the pretty rays shining luminescent upon them, they would wake up realizing it had all been a dream. That this couldn’t possibly be the life that they lived because the universe could not be so senselessly cruel.

     Cruelty that stung in the soul after the physical wounds faded into nothingness.

     Dean’s story leaked of cruelty and his own disbelief made it that much more difficult to bear as they baked together in that car on that stuffy, starless summer night.

     The hunt, funny enough, had been, a complete success. Dean’s agility, reflexes, and base instinct had kept a vamp from taking John’s head off and despite all that had passed between them his pride swelled when John clapped him on the back in gratitude.

     They went out drinking, typical hunter’s fashion, to celebrate not becoming vampire chow. Sam could just envision the easy set to Dean’s back as he stepped into the bar just a step behind John. As a token of good will, John bought Dean a beer and together, they scoped the place out.

     John flagged Dean’s attention and gestured subtly at a table of attractive girls that were looking Dean over. Sam could picture the bright smile Dean flashed, as if he was perpetually surprised at all the people that found him attractive.

    Still, Dean had shaken his head in disinterest and John had laughingly inquired, “What? You got a special girl at home you saving yourself for.”

     Dean good-naturedly had rolled his eyes at the teasing sarcasm and after a generous swallow of beer, he answered, “Yeah something like that.”

     Then Dean spied the pool table and he knocked his shoulder gently against John’s.

            “You wanna clean out the locals.”

     And Sam grit his teeth together because Dean playing pool was like watching sin incarnated. His brother stretched, utilized his body in every conceivable way, because Dean was a competitive son of a bitch when it came to pool, and he had a habit of teasing at his bottom lip when he concentrated.

     It wasn’t often that Dean could truly test his skills against anyone other than Sam and Dean pulled every trick that he perfected over the last few years. He became so lost in the simple pleasure of playing a decent game of pool that he didn’t keep a tally of the multiple beers that John kept buying him. Dean just kept going through the pleasant buzzing in his skull and he felt better than he had for months.

     Dean also didn’t take much notice of the abundance of touches that John lavished on his skin: the hands low on his hips stroking the prominent bone there, the heavy hand on his neck, an occasional hand patting his ass.

      None of it registered warningly in Dean’s head until they finally got back to the motel room. Dean had flopped onto the bed, suitably worn out, and had been contented to fall asleep fully-clothed. He didn’t bother rolling over when John sat down next to him on the bed. Just slurred out a questioning noise when he felt John’s hands petting down his flank.

            “You’re a damn good-looking kid,” John started and Dean finally knew that he should move, but rolling over suddenly felt like too much of a burden. “Can’t hardly look at you anymore, you’re like sex on legs.”

            Dean squirmed around intent on getting off the bed now, but John rolled him onto his back and pinned him with one sturdy hand to the chest. “You remind me of your mother, you know that. So beautiful.” Dean starting protesting but John had already starting pushing his jeans down with one hand. “And the mouth on her, she gave blowjobs like you wouldn’t believe. You’re gonna suck me off.”

      And yeah, Dean fought. As well as he could considering how drunk he was. But in the end, he let John use his mouth. He kept his teeth out of the way, and let him thrust deep into his throat. He didn’t cry the entire time, and he didn’t close his eyes.

    

* * *

 

     Dean petered off into silence in stages. He eventually drifted off with his arms twined solidly around Sam’s waist and Sam could feel the measured puffs on the back of his neck.

     Dean obviously brushed his teeth rather vigorously because the smell of spearmint pressed cloyingly in his nose.

     Sam could barely suppress his body’s movement, especially his knees which wanted to bounce and knock against one another despite being smashed together in the foot well.

     Something possessive and protective cooked in his gut until he couldn’t see past the fury and his breaths rapped out shorter as his words flung themselves back at him.

_If you ever touch him again, I will bury a knife in your gut and put a bullet through your skull._

     It should have frightened him because he wasn’t just spouting some idle threat, he knew while speaking he was deadly serious. He was going to kill his father.

     The minutes ticked by in bunches but Sam had no chance of drifting off to sleep.

     Sometime, in that unquantifiable time between midnight and before dawn when the sky is shuttered and dark, John walked out of the motel room smoking a cigarette. He stood smoking for at least ten minutes, not bothering to turn his head or he would have spied his boys crushed together in the Impala. Just stumbled back through the door of his room and collapsed through the threshold of the newly opened door.

     Breathing as quietly as he could through his nose, Sam counted to one hundred and then waited a bit more until his hands stopped shaking. It took even longer to octopus his way out of his brother’s arms without waking Dean up and to ease the trunk of the Impala up, sneak into the secret compartment, and fetch his gun.

     He considered bringing the knife that Dean gave to him, but couldn’t stomach handling it right now, after everything that happened.

     Getting into John’s room wasn’t too difficult, and Sam didn’t allow any space in his mind to be bogged down with doubt. There was a single-minded, driven intensity to his every movement that belied his focus, sharp as a needlepoint.

     But once Sam stood in the middle of the shabby little room he didn’t bother keeping quiet. His father had hunted long enough that it would have been virtually impossible to sneak up on him. Still, John did appear surprised to see Sam but only glanced wearily ass the revolver in his son’s hand.

            “Sam, we should probably talk, about what happened.” He didn’t raise his hands in surrender, but Sam could tell that this wouldn’t lead to a fight.

    Sam stalked a few steps closer. “There isn’t anything to say.”

     Certainty steeled his bones and he had had his mind decided for some time now. He raised the gun, and his father blurted, “If you shoot me, you know he will hate you. He might not admit to it but eventually his resentment will get in between you two.”

     Sam leaned slightly back on his haunches but still he was poised, barreling closer and closer to violence.

     He bared his teeth in what might pass for a semblance of a smile, “I know my brother. It would have bothered him before, but now,” he let his mouth lean heavily on the word “now” and his father understood, “now, he’ll be so damn relieved, he’ll thank me.”

     In the end, it was easy. He had been training with guns since he knew the reality of what existed in the world. He didn’t miss, couldn’t. He hit John squarely in the forehead and in the heart. The report was loud enough that it would rouse people from their beds, but Dean had heard the noise and dragged Sam from the scene immediately.

    They drove in the opposite direction. Sam reclined in the passenger seat, with one hand resting heavily on Dean’s thigh. His mind and soul felt purged, blank, and clean.

   

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, friends :) I hope you enjoy this, it's been on my mind constantly lately. 
> 
> PSA: After I add the final chapter to this fic, if all goes well I plan on writing one more continuation to the story.


End file.
